


River

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [27]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Nipawin (1991-1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1993: Life happens with the best of intentions.  Or despite them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	River

"It was here, while waiting for my brother, that I started this story, although, of course, at the time I did not know that stories of life are more often like rivers than books. But I knew a story had begun, perhaps long ago near the sound of water. And I sensed that ahead I would meet something that would never erode so there would be a sharp turn, deep circles, a deposit, and quietness." - **Norman Maclean** ; A River Runs Through It

 

Turnbull balled up the paper, tried not to think about the unknown greasy substance on it, and threw it in the bin.

He didn't, at the moment, have it in him even to get particularly annoyed.

"Sorry," Constable Mitchell said, though his tone was anything but, as he grabbed his duty bag out of the passenger's side of the cruiser and closed the door. "Have a good shift," he added, and headed for the detachment's back door.

Corporal Chase was not far behind, having doubtless taken the extra few minutes to make certain that his cruiser -- the practically venerated B414 -- was neat, clean and secured for the night. Turnbull did his best to offer a smile to the man, then went back to making sure there were no bits of food left in the seats of his own.

"I picked up one of those variety boxes of tea while I was down in Regina," Chase said, leaning on the quarterpanel of Turnbull's cruiser, apparently wanting to talk. "Figured that you and Russ could duke it out for who got what."

It no longer surprised Turnbull when Chase referred to their commander by his given name. He couldn't ever fathom, though, calling Corporal Chase 'Mike', let alone calling Severn 'Russ'. It seemed entirely too disrespectful to both men, even after nearly two years. Perhaps especially after two years, which had earned them a loyalty that Turnbull could never have anticipated on the first day.

He gave back a half-smile, not looking away from his careful inspection. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, I was getting myself some decent coffee, so it wasn't out of the way." Chase crossed his arms, and Turnbull could feel the light scrutiny he was getting. Were it not for the fact that Chase had trained him for six months, he would have found it more unnerving; because of those six months, he was used to getting it and knew well that it was both genuine assessment and that it would extend no deeper than he, himself, allowed.

"We had a few domestics earlier," Chase added, switching topics entirely. "People are getting cabin-crazy again."

Of all of the calls he took, Turnbull disliked domestic disputes most. Particularly ones that crossed to physical violence, but even verbal altercations tended to leave him feeling uneasy and bruised afterwards, even when he was often the one who got into the middle of them and broke them up. He could handle an accident scene well, he could deal with barfights, he even did fine with violent offenders who were angry and willing to try to swing on a Mountie. He was capable of facing a scene where someone had died, either prematurely or due to old age, and after near two years, he had proven himself in any number of situations.

He never could shake, though, the deep and fundamental sense of _wrongness_ that came with seeing love turned into a blade. He knew well that it was possible; he had done so himself, when he was young, until he learned better and even then he still felt guilty about it.

But these people were his age, or older, and turned it onto their spouses, children, _families_ , and it still made him feel off-balance and wrong every time he took a call like that. It never ended. They never learned better. Never saw the pain they caused, or if they did, it never was enough to keep them from doing it again. It made him angry, it made him sick; when it involved children, especially, it tended to dog him for days with uneasiness and worry and ache.

Turnbull's mindset on the road was that of a professional police officer. Domestic disputes, though, could hit him behind his wall.

Chase knew it, too; had assessed that early and done quite an admirable job of reinforcing what their duties in such situations were, and how to remain detached enough to handle them. Never quite enough to disarm Turnbull's sense of coming away a little battered himself at such things, however. Hence the warning.

"I'll bear that in mind, sir," Turnbull answered, at length; satisfied his cruiser was cleaned up, he leaned in to put his duty-bag on the passenger's side floor, pulling his clipboard and citation book out of the top to set on the seat.

"Hopefully, it'll be a quiet night," Chase said, still leaning.

"Indeed."

Silence stretched on for a long moment.

"Rook..."

Recognizing the 'look at me' tone, Turnbull looked up.

Chase's face was serious; careful scrutiny, genuine concern. "Stay safe out there."

"Yes, sir," Turnbull answered, and this time, he felt the half-smile he gave back.

 

 

In truth, Turnbull felt safer in his uniform, especially these days. His cruiser was, right now, the single safest place in his universe. He couldn't entirely shake the anxiety from his personal life, but he felt secure in uniform. He could see the world with the clarity his professionalism allowed him, and didn't find himself tangled up in his own thoughts. Even domestic disputes, while they could leave him feeling battered, weren't enough to make him second-guess himself like he had been lately.

Volunteering for overtime had felt like a defeat and a refuge, all at the same time.

It was not so much that he was even hiding behind his uniform. It was that his uniform allowed him respite from the confusion; allowed him distance and perspective, and further, it felt like he was accomplishing something, even when he had a quiet shift and did nothing but patrol.

It was also not that he somehow became a different person on-duty, instead of off. He was Renfield Turnbull in uniform or out. But on duty, he was tasked with helping others when their need became such that they called for him, or when he came across them, and in helping them through their problems, his own became less frightening.

His cruiser felt warm and cold; the cold air came in from his open window, washing out the last scent of Mitchell's food-items. The warm air came from the vents, scented vanilla from the air freshener, blasting across his hands on the steering wheel and mingling with the cold on his face. Beyond, the sound of the engine hummed. His radio was silent, tonight; it appeared that the cold was keeping people in, as Chase had said, though Turnbull hoped that they wouldn't decide to fight in their self-imposed solitude.

His own solitude was comforting and comfortable under the dark sky; he drove up the old highway 35, following no particular patrol pattern, just so he could cross the old bridge, head up north, come back on 55 and cross again at the new bridge back into Nipawin. It was a route he loved; open fields of prairie land on either side, where he could keep an eye out for cars off of the road and admire the patterns of snow-drifts across the wide-open world.

The Saskatchewan River lay frozen below when he crossed Nipawin's CPR bridge; the girders passed his windows, the railroad ran above him, devoid of trains right now. An industrial tunnel; distinctive and familiar.

A blast of wind from downriver came through the window, and he shivered even as he couldn't help but smile a little, rolling up his window so that 420 could shield him from the cold.

 

 

"How was it, Renfield?" Severn asked, as he put the tea pot on to heat.

"Quiet, sir," Turnbull answered, finishing up his log at the desk. No overtime today. He was free to go, and yet he lingered, pausing occasionally in working on his log to look out the window and watch the day slowly breaking. He had next to nothing on the log, but he dragged it out; there was peace to be found there, even when the anxiety of another day of confusion was already creeping its way past the night spent on patrol. "No calls, no reports."

"Well, that's good." Severn turned and leaned against the counter as he waited, and Turnbull could feel the look he was getting. Less heavy than Chase's assessing, though still something he was entirely aware of. "Do you want a cup of tea, before you head home?"

Turnbull glanced at the variety box that Corporal Chase had brought in, then shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. Perhaps when I come in this evening."

"All right," Severn replied. "I'll make sure to save you some, then."

"Thank you, sir." Turnbull took a breath, stood up, grabbed his jacket and his private vehicle's keys and headed for the door. "Have a good day, sir."

Severn went to return it, then paused a bare moment and answered instead, "Take care, Renfield."

 

 

Mark worked for SaskPower, and Turnbull had spent the day not-sleeping and trying to rehearse what he wanted to say, waiting for the man to get off of work. He would be lying if he said he wasn't frightened, but he didn't want to spend another day in the same pattern as the past several weeks; him trying to get closer, finding Mark getting further away. What apologies he would have to make, he would make. What wrongs he had to right, he would right.

He had tried sending flowers last week. Mark had been... less than enthused. He had tried working less, only to find Mark seemed... tense, uncertain, uncomfortable whenever they were together. What few times they had gone to bed together, Mark barely touched him.

He had tried talking, falling over his own words until he wanted nothing more than to call the detachment and pray that they had some sort of overtime scheduled. Tried praying, though no answer came. Tried everything, only to fall painfully short.

He just wished he knew what he was doing _wrong_.

In the end, he could only resolve himself to ask directly and hope whatever it was could be overcome together.

 

 

"I don't love you," Mark said, looking off to the side, mouth tight, hands shoved into his pockets.

Turnbull blinked once and felt like he had just been hit, somewhere he couldn't possibly shield himself, scrambling in his mind to comprehend the words, praying that he had just imagined them; that they were some cruel twist of his own mind against him and not reality, hanging in the crystal cold air.

Mark glanced back and winced, pulling his hands out of his pockets to gesture listlessly. "It wasn't like that, Renfield," he said, though he never clarified what 'it' wasn't like. "I just wanted to let you down easy, and I wasn't sure how to do it. This... can't work. I'm not ready to deal with this."

"...deal with what?" Turnbull asked, and the words sounded thready and thin to his own ears.

Mark shrugged, uneasily, looking away again. "You."

"You said..."

Mark winced again, more graphically, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "I didn't want to hurt you, okay?"

Turnbull just stared, disbelief of a different type creeping in. "All of this time...?"

Mark shifted from foot to foot. "Yeah. Look, I'm really sorry--"

"You _lied_."

Mark fell silent.

Turnbull ground his teeth together, his face burning and a mix between rage and mortification growing somewhere in his gut, making him struggle for air. "You _lied_ to me. _Why._ "

"So I wouldn't hurt you!" Mark shot back, hands out and gesturing again, more fiercely. Defensively. "You're so... so..." He shot a hand into the air. "... _sensitive_ , it would have been like kicking a puppy!"

"And you thought that the way to prevent hurting me was by doing _this_?!" Turnbull snapped back. "What manner of kindness is this?!"

"I was hoping you'd get the idea and find someone else!" Mark said, but his tone was weak, wavering. "I didn't want to be the one to break your heart!"

Turnbull dragged in air, eyes stinging, and bared his teeth in a flash of a snarl before answering, "You think far too highly of _yourself_ , if you believe _you_ have the power to _break me_."

Mark recoiled a little and said nothing more.

Turnbull kept that level stare on him a moment longer, teeth locked, then turned and walked back to his car.

 

 

"No domestics tonight," Corporal Chase said, leaning against the counter.

Turnbull held his tea close to his chest; the steam curling up off of it felt good on his face, even as it threatened to make his eyes sting again. "That's... good, sir."

Chase nodded, then fell silent for long seconds, looking over the otherwise empty detachment building under the harsh fluorescent lights. Then he looked over, eyebrows up. "Good tea?"

"Yes, sir." Turnbull barely thought to taste it, but it wasn't off-putting. Severn had, indeed, saved him quite a bit of it as well. He was not so sure what to make of that kindness right now. "Thank you for bringing it back."

He could feel that scrutiny when it landed on him again; for the first time in a very long time, he felt like flinching under it. He knew that Chase would not ask. Still, he sometimes wondered -- worried -- just how much the Corporal knew and could see.

He buried himself in a sip of the tea, and prayed that he was not so transparent that the battering he felt was visible. For all of the literal bruises he had worn in his life, none were more humiliating than the invisible ones he was wearing now.

"I'll pick up another box next time I'm down there," Chase finally said, as though he had come to a decision, and then stood up straight, heading for the door. "Stay safe out there tonight, Turnbull."

"Yes, sir," Turnbull answered, tightening his grip around his mug and breathing out, past the blade that shouldn't have been there, against the battering he should have avoided.

The steam from the tea mingled with the icy air as Chase vanished out the door.

He finished it quickly, then headed out himself; into the comfortable and comforting solitude of a winter night, an old highway, an old bridge, and 420 to shield him from the cold.


End file.
